Schools don't smell the same as they used to, I thought to myself as I sat outside my son's primary school class. I was waiting to see his teacher, Mrs Honeycomb. This was my first parents evening.
As I sat just outside room four, my gaze wandered to the wall opposite. The large clock at the end of the corridor told me that Mrs Honeycomb was running at least ten minutes behind her schedule. I wondered if all clocks installed in schools were standard issue, as they all looked, and sounded the same. Heavy black rim, large white face with black numerals, and the loudest "tick, tock", possible.
The magnolia painted walls was barely visible underneath the colourful displays of the children's class work. The thickly covered paintings were curling at the edges, despite the efforts of four extra large lumps of 'blue tack.'
The door opened, a smiling couple emerged clutching a wad of precious paintings. A very tall, and very young Miss Honeycomb followed them.
"Luke's Mom? Do come on in," she said cheerfully.
Miss Honeycomb led me over to a group of very small, melamine-topped tables and chairs. On top of the tables was an assortment of coloured plastic trays. Each tray bore the name of a child and was packed to ca
pacity with sheets of paper and books.
Every morning, after Mrs Smith had taken the register she would pick a child to take the register back to the office. All hands would shoot up into the air in the hope of being picked for this important task. The child awarded this duty would take the register to the school office and collect a plate of apple slices for the morning break. Mr Knox, dressed in his tan coloured lab coat would bring the crates of icy cold silver topped milk a little later.
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